


Momomme

by primeideal



Category: Quatrevingt-treize | Ninety-three - Victor Hugo
Genre: Gen, Ghosts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:42:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28129338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/primeideal/pseuds/primeideal
Summary: The dead do have power to protect.
Comments: 7
Kudos: 6
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	Momomme

**Author's Note:**

  * For [regshoe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/regshoe/gifts).



“Well,” said Housarde, “we are in a fine stew. Yesterday we were guests of the town, today we are prisoners. Very well, it is all the same. Shall we give them some water?”

Michelle Fléchard, for once, found Housarde’s attitude about the situation appropriate. She was in a strange land, surrounded by unfamiliar men, but her children were at her side. Her children, and the unflappable woman who had taken her under her wing. The farmers had given them food to eat the night before, and there was fresh water to drink, if not enough to quench the fire that was consuming the farm. It was all the same.

“I say,” said Housarde, to one of the men wearing white uniforms, “a drink?” He glared at them in disgust and marched along, but one of the Bonnet-Rouge grenadiers gladly sipped from Housarde’s canteen. He was barefoot; the Vendean troops had collected the Bonnet-Rouge’s shoes after their weapons. The Vendeans had no use for women’s shoes, and had not bothered to confiscate the pair that Housarde had given to Michelle.

“Drink,” repeated Georgette. Michelle longed to pick her up and feed her from her breast, but Housarde insisted she was too old for that.

“Here you are, little one,” said Housarde, as Georgette clumsily sipped at the canteen, spilling water from the sides of her lips.

“You must not do that,” Michelle chided her. “It will go to waste.”

“Let her be,” said Housarde. “We are half as many as we were yesterday.”

“Form up!” barked a Vendean officer. “Form up! All prisoners in formation!”

“They do not care for us,” Housarde said. “We are women. What is it to them if we live or die?”

But a half-dozen troops accosted the women. “Are these the ones?” one soldier asked.

“I suppose they must be.” said another. “All the peasants have fled.”

“What do you suppose Lantenac wants with them?”

“Me? I suppose nothing. Lantenac is a marquis, it is his duty to suppose. That is too much work for me. I am a soldier, and my duty is to follow orders.”

“So it is.” The soldier reached for René-Jean. “Come along. This is no sight for children.”

“Mother!” René-Jean wailed. Gros-Alain echoed his cry even before another soldier hauled him away, and a third grabbed Georgette.

“My children!” Michelle screamed. “What are you doing to my children!”

“You there,” said another Vendean, gesturing towards Housarde with his gun. “Against the wall.”

“My children!” Michelle echoed. “Are you beasts? Were you not children, once? Did you have no mother who nursed you? War is a terrible monster to men. What need have you with my children?”

“Be brave, Flécharde,” said Housarde, grasping her hand as they stood. “You see, it will not hurt.”

“God!” Michelle pleaded. “Lord Jesus and Mary! My children!”

“You must be strong,” Housarde said. “Be strong for your little ones. I am here beside you, you see?”

A clamor of bullets sounded across the burning village.

Later, when the sun was setting, when no man remained to draw breath in what had once been Herbe-en-Pail, when the fire had spread from the meager buildings of the village to the ageless trees beyond, Housarde’s spirit awoke, took in the devastation, and found itself lingering where her head had been pierced by four bullets.

“Well, Bicorneau,” she said to herself, “now you are truly in the stew, and no mistake.”

* * *

A scenthound may be bent on the target it hunts, but not so singleminded that it loses the knack to notice other dogs in its territory. So it is with ghosts. When Housarde had taken stock of her situation, she felt a foul presence further inland. She could not have said how she perceived it any more than she could have explained the workings of her eyes. They told her that such-and-such could be found in such a direction.

But much more immediate, there was life near her, at her very feet! She steadied herself; the act of focusing restored something akin to the old senses she had known, the ability to distinguish shapes. Perhaps the sense of smell, amid the death and decay, was not such a bad thing to have lost.

Michelle’s body was motionless, and her eyes were closed, yet to Housarde she seemed like a colorful torch burning amid the gray night. Housarde willed herself to speak, to step back from the infinite expanse that had opened itself to her and communicate as she had in life. Was it fear of the unknown that stirred her, or fear of seeing Michelle join her in death? At last, she produced something with the ring of sound. “Flécharde! You yet live!”

Michelle made no response.

Housarde reached out for other sparks of life. Slightly more distant than Michelle, but much nearer than the foulness she sensed. She tried to move, and motion felt slightly unfamiliar, as if she was staying in one place and compelling the earth to shift beneath her. “Hello? Who is there?” The thought that they might be Vendeans never concerned her. What did one who was dead have to fear?

There was no response, yet she remained conscious of life. Two forms, it seemed like, very close. “I am only a vivandière,” she said. “I cannot hurt you.” Could she, she wondered? Surely the dead made no distinction between women and men.

At last, the bolder of the two peasants crept out of the ashes. “Who’s there?” he called.

“I was with the batallion,” she said. “My friend survived, but she is badly wounded.”

The man leaped back, crossing himself in fear. “Begone, you mad specter!”

“Peace!” said Housarde. The superstitious fools...No, she told herself, chastising them would not help Michelle any faster. “You may call me what you like, but I ask you to help my friend. I fear I cannot touch her.”

The other man emerged. “Do you think me a miracle-worker? It was all I could do to hide when they burned the farm.”

“I am not asking for revenge, not yet. Surely you have some kind of herbs or bandages.” Or had everyone in Herbe-en-Pail who could have helped been slaughtered?

“The caimand,” he said cautiously. “If you must, go and bother him. The way he carries on, speaking with ghosts will be no strange thing.”

“Thank you,” said Housarde. “Where can I find this caimand?”

“He lives in a _carnichot_ beneath the trees.”

“That does her no good,” the first man pointed out, “she is a Parisian, what does she know of woods?”

“Who are you to know what a ghost cannot do?”

“If he is near, I will find him,” said Housarde confidently. Though only a few hours dead, she could already boast in her knack for feeling out living, working minds. It is the opposite effect of that where a living soul alone in a room experiences the sensation of someone watching over their shoulder. Sometimes it is merely the work of fear, but sometimes it indicates that a ghost has passed through.

“Go, then,” said the first, “and be quick about it. We have seen our share of death here.”

“Will you not at least help me carry her?” Housarde called, but both men were already fleeing into the night.

Having no need to sleep nor eat, Housarde was less tired than put off, but she made haste towards the next-nearest living being, who was none other than Tellmarch himself, drawn to the fires. Happily, Tellmarch was indeed the sort of man to be untroubled by ghosts. He admired the grandeur of the soul and contemplated it on his excursions; he thought it a great blessing to have roots over his head but did not think so highly of his home that he would take up arms to keep it from changing or to force every man in France to have such an abode. Such men are called insane.

The wound in Michelle’s chest made it difficult for her to speak even after several days’ rest, and Tellmarch hushed her insistently if she dared exert her lungs. With those peasants who remained in the area continuing to give him leeway, it was left to Housarde to explain the whole sorry encounter. “All the men were lined up, they must have been shot just after I was.”

“And none of them have...returned in such a state as you have?” Tellmarch inquired.

“Not that I see, but you cannot expect me to be an expert upon such matters yet. I have merely been dead these few days!”

“Do not be overly humble,” said Tellmarch, “you’re a fair sight more acquainted with it than I am.”

“René-Jean...” babbled the delirious Michelle.

“Be quiet,” Tellmarch scolded her. “If you damage your lungs after all I have tried I daresay Housarde shall do me violence.” Housarde did not have any such capacity, but she saw no reason to let Tellmarch know that.

He moved to the other side of the _carnichot_ ; Housarde followed, unencumbered by the dirt. “You truly believe they...” He trailed off, as if not wanting to encourage false hope.

“They live,” said Housarde briskly. “The abominable Britons carried them off, all three, for whatever reason I could not guess. Had they wanted to murder them it would have been an easy thing! Three children, and not nine years among them! These beasts murder women—or try to, at any rate. They would have not hesitated to toss the little midgets into the fire had they wished.”

“What would such monsters want with children?” It was easier for Tellmarch to say “such monsters” than “the Marquis de Lantenac.”

“Perhaps to have a mascot, like some wretched flag. Or perhaps a few of themselves plan to pass themselves off as fathers with their babes.”

“The lads are old enough to speak, are they not? Surely they would tell any passers-by that this is not their real father, and their mother is lost.”

“Well, if I knew all the battle-plans of these peasants, I would not be a vivandière, would I? They would make me a general of the Republic.”

“Pah,” said Tellmarch. “It is evil enough that men devote themselves to firing guns at each other, now women must harbor these nightmares? I suppose next they will take the little girl and give her a sack of gunpowder to carry.”

“Now see here,” Housarde began, “you are a very silly man. I fight not only for Paris, but for all of France! Even for wizards like you. Some day when the nation is free you will not need to live in a tree anymore, what do you say to that?”

“I say I shall be most disappointed if the rest of your batallion comes to cut down my tree, but enough of that. You must not speak of the children to Michelle until she is well. Knowing they are gone might break her spirits.”

“Knowing they are alive will put strength into her,” said Housarde. “All your wonders will do her no good if she has not the hope of finding them.”

“Even so. You must wait until she is stronger.”

While Michelle remained delirious, the point was moot anyway. But the day came when she was strong enough to eat on her own, and even walk outside a bit. Tellmarch had told her what facts he could without startling her too greatly. “You were wounded, but did not die. I tried to patch you up the best I could. All the soldiers left corpses there, and the army left too quickly to bury them, so it seems as if your children are not here. Perhaps they may even still be alive.”

“You did wrong,” said Michelle, “in saving me. At least if I were dead I would be near them and see them. The dead must have power to protect.”

Tellmarch attempted to check her pulse, but Housarde spoke. “You are wrong, but you see, it is not your fault for not knowing. Not even I, being a ghost, can tell you where they are just at this moment. But I shall protect _you_ , and right now you ought to listen to your doctor.”

Michelle glanced at the specter, and before she could utter a prayer, fainted again.

“Confound it,” said Tellmarch, “don’t you frighten her to death and waste all my work.”

* * *

When Michelle awoke, she was much more energetic than she had been during her illness, gulping down what little food Tellmarch could spare and frenetically mending her tattered clothes with a needle and thread he had found for her. “I must go away,” she said. “I must find them.”

“You are ill,” said Tellmarch, “and should not think of such things yet.”

“Should not think of such things? What is a mother to think of, if not the cries of her children? Would you tell the bird not to concern herself with her eggs in the nest, or a cow not to concern herself with giving milk?”

“Perhaps,” Tellmarch said, “but you are wiser than a bird.”

“Where will you go?” said Housarde. “Do you suppose you will find them by wandering about?”

“I survived by my wandering,” said Michelle, “when there were four mouths to feed, not just one. And anyhow—” She broke off, no longer frightened by Housarde’s appearance. “So it is true? You are a ghost?”

“I suppose I am.”

“What good is it to a ghost to sit here? If you can walk about, you ought to be searching for them.”

“I have been looking out for you.”

“And what good has that done me? Better to let me die so I can move about. The caimand does not scold _you_.”

“All of my brothers-in-arms are dead. I do not know where Sergeant Radoub is, or even if he yet lives. You are the only one left of our batallion, therefore my duty is to you. Had I hands that could touch the earth I would give you a canteen.”

“Then you will come with me,” Michelle implored, “when I go?”

“You are in no state to depart,” Tellmarch repeated.

“Wizard,” said Housarde, “cease your stargazing for a moment and see what is near at hand. This woman, this mother, do you intend to keep her in your _carnichot_ like a prisoner forever? Will the peasants come to fear and avoid her as they do you, the man who consorts with ghosts? Or shall you, rather, let her think on the future and so be a good patient?”

“Perhaps,” Tellmarch allowed.

Thus defended, Michelle regained her strength day by day until the point when she had constructed a bag which she filled with chestnuts, and a passable, if desperately poor, outfit. “I am going,” she said. “If God sees fit to mock me by keeping me alive this way, he can lead me to my children.”

“I am coming with you,” Housarde demanded. Michelle’s presence was a steady beacon, a signal of life like Tellmarch’s or the peasants’. But it was just one among many. If she were to let the living woman out of sight, she thought she could no more easily find her again than she could find Radoub or Robespierre himself. As strange as it was to lack a body, to need neither food nor sleep, the thought of abandoning the last of the Bonnet-Rouge was even more alien.

Michelle made no effort to prevent her.

* * *

For several days Housarde was content to follow Michelle. The mother walked at first one way, and then the next; sometimes by roads, sometimes crossing fields, usually surviving on what herbs she could pluck. Her shoes wore out, not from pressing onwards, but from retracing her own path.

At last Housarde could bear the futility no more. “I have given you a fine thing in those shoes. Do not waste them by walking the same ground for the third time!”

“Do you know where they are?” Michelle pled.

“If I knew that I would not be letting you rove like a mad beast, would I? I am a ghost, not a demon.”

Michelle ignored, or more likely, did not perceive, the insult. “Then who are you to tell me where to go?”

“I can navigate a little. Read signs. Perhaps I can help you find your way.”

“Help? What help are you? You tried to help me out of my hiding-place and all the good it did me was to have my children ripped away from me.”

Housarde said nothing for a moment. She fought for the Republic—for the Revolution, magnificent and inexorable—and yet, their brightest dreams would do nothing to dispel the shadow in Michelle’s heart. “You are right,” she said. “I am sorry.”

“Well,” said Michelle, “that’s a fair sight kinder than the fellow who shot me.”

“Do you want me to leave?”

Michelle gave a dry laugh. “And where would _you_ go? These may be dangerous times, but I do not think any man would stoop to marrying a ghost.”

“I was not planning on marrying.”

“Well, then you had better stay with me, hadn’t you? You with no flesh and me with no children. What a pair!”

To be granted a seat at Michelle’s miserable camp nevertheless gladdened Housarde. All of the world lay open to her, yet there was contentment in staying with one who knew her by name, who tolerated her for no better reason than that she was herself.

It was not until the next morning that Housarde broached the subject of finding a route. “My sight and hearing are no finer than yours, perhaps worse, in my condition. Yet since my death I have had a—scent, of sorts, directing me towards a place far off. I feel confident that if we aim that way and carry straight on, we shall at least not cross our path while we seek someone who can aid us.”

“A place far off?” said Michelle. “What sort of place?”

“I could not say.”

“Then how do you know of it?”

“Suppose you were to enter a room in the dark, with no candles nor moonlight. In one of the corners, a child had soiled herself. Would you search each of them to find where she slept, or would you know without fail in which part of the room the brat lay?”

“Do you think me a fool?” Michelle said. “I am a mother, I could smell wet underclothes at fifty paces like one of your gunmen.”

“So it is with ghosts,” said Housarde. “Or it is for me. I have not had the pleasure of another ghost to compare experiences with.”

“And you insist on drawing near to this stench? If you had any sense you would go the other way, and keep it behind you.”

While Michelle was quite unlearned, this argument did strike Housarde as sensible. And yet she felt as if the foulness was drawing her, wanted her to seek it out while being wholly repulsive in its own right. “Perhaps there are others who sense it, and if we draw near we will find others who we can make inquiries of. Yet if you wish to go another way, I will follow you.”

“We shall go that way, if the roads are not too difficult,” Michelle decided. “If that is where all your fellow ghosts congregate, you may find them more pleasant companions.”

The route took them west, beyond Laignelet, which is sometimes called Kernoanig, in the direction of Fougères, which the Vendeans called Felger, or again Foujerr. Michelle could tell, by the manner of a bystander’s speech, whether he hailed from the east or west of Brittany, though to Housarde they all sounded equally rustic. They travelled by night more than day; for Housarde, one was as good as the other, and for Michelle, it was easier to avoid the worst of the sun’s heat. When they were in deep forests or empty fields, Housarde stayed close to Michelle’s side, urging her to take the scant opportunities for food or a bed other than the forest floor when they arose. When they passed through villages, Housarde remained at a distance. “These peasants ought not to see such things as ghosts. They will go telling tales, and that is no good.”

“Am I any different from them?” Michelle would challenge.

“You are a canteen woman, for you it is all right. When you see your brats you may tell them stories of the silly ghost who followed you. They are of an age for that sort of thing.”

Once or twice there were men who had low regard for women travelling alone, and intimated that she would find no refuge nor directions in their village unless they were to profit in some fashion by it. These, Housarde had no compunction about appearing to. “Get you gone! Four bullets in my head were not enough to destroy my spirit, and I am not scared of brutes like you. If speak that way again to a traveller, you will see there are things worse than the guillotine.”

“You are not worried that _they_ will carry stories?” Michelle asked, once the men had fled.

“Let them,” said Housarde. “Their fellow villagers will think them madmen, and keep their distance as they ought.”

“What was that creature you threatened them with?”

“What creature?”

“That guillotine—how do you say it? Is it a thing of ghosts?”

“No,” said Housarde gently. “If there are others like me, I suppose we all belong to the past, in some fashion. The guillotine is a thing of this terrible year.”

“I do not know what you mean.”

“Give thanks for your ignorance, then, and sleep. You will do your children no good if you faint from exhaustion, and I cannot drag you back to the Caimand.”

As July was coming to an end, the foulness grew even stronger in Housarde’s mind, and they came upon a plateau where a small force was camped, just outside the great forest of Fougères. “You must remain here,” Housarde warned, “for I fear there are not ghosts here, but living armies.”

“What if they are your allies?”

“Then I will come for you at once, and we shall laugh at whichever good Blue smells so wretched.”

“And they will help us?” Michelle asked. “To find my children?”

“They will give you a good soup that is better than the crumbs you have been finding,” said Housarde, “and then we shall see.”

Michelle obediently remained in the forest while Housarde approached the plateau. She realized at once that she would not have to disappoint Michelle with the fact that the Blues were far more dedicated to the revolutionary struggle than they were with playing nursemaid; this was a Vendean camp. That would explain why they were so repulsive, she supposed. But why had she been led all that way, when there were surely other brigands nearer to Herbe-en-Pail?

She turned to retreat, but before making her departure, she heard a lisping voice say “Momomme!” It will be understood that this babbling refers to anything that resembles a living being without being one.

The voice came from a cart, packed with munitions and other supplies. There were many spare uniforms from the brigands who had fallen in battles throughout the month. Riding alongside them were the three small children.

“It is a ghost!” declared Gros-Alain in fright. If any of the soldiers heard this, they paid him no mind. Their hostages prattled all sorts of nonsense things.

“It is a lady,” said René-Jean.

“Mamma,” mused Georgette.

Housarde willed herself to stay silent. An unwary human spy might have been given away by stepping on a twig or scraping against a cart wheel. But she had no such risks, as long as she could avoid comforting the children with the fact that their mother was near at hand.

As Gros-Alain whined about his hunger, Housarde returned to the trees. “It is the Vendeans,” she said. “You must keep away.”

“Where shall we go?”

“What?”

“You said we would follow your trail as far as it led. Shall we not return to the farm, to find somewhere else that my children may have been taken?”

“Where there are enemies, there will be friends near at hand. Let me scout ahead, and I will find kinder shelter for us both.”

“You are lying to me,” said Michelle.

“What? Why would I deceive you?”

“Do you think I cannot tell when someone is planning mischief? We were not always famished. There were days when I caught René-Jean sneaking berries behind my back, and you are no better a liar than he.”

“There is danger there, Michelle, believe me! All I want is to keep you safe. A little while here, while we plan.”

“I have had enough of warriors and their plans.” Michelle strode to the edge of the forest.

“Please,” Housarde pled. “Let me—”

“You there!” Michelle demanded of the first man she encountered on the plateau. “Have you seen three little children? They are two boys and a girl.”

The soldier merely laughed at this manner of questioning.

“They are mine,” Michelle continued, “and I am searching for them.”

“Yours?” he said. “Then you had better get clear. This is no place for nursers.”

“Say, now,” said another of the soldiers, “what’s this? Aren’t you supposed to be snoring in your grave?”

And suddenly the foulness surged up in Housarde again until it threatened to overpower her. She had to act quickly, she told herself; there was little chance of any _further_ danger coming to Michelle. “She ought to,” Housarde said, appearing in front of the second soldier. “And so should I, for you are the creature who killed me.”

At this the second man shuddered. “Great God!”

“He may be great, for all that, for he has seen fit to let us walk the earth a big longer. And do you think it is only us? The men of my company are bold, but they are not as responsible as us women, and have taken their time carousing and merrymaking now that they have no fear of you. But they will follow after, you can be sure of that! Ah, you were very brave when you massacred defenseless prisoners! But now you will face an army that has no need of doctors nor even canteens. Has your curé taught you how to exorcise spirits? No? Pity.”

“Do not listen to this...this phantom,” said the first soldier.

“Phantom?” Michelle raged. “I tell you what I am, I am a mother! Now whether I am alive or dead is no concern to me, but I beg you to set my children at liberty! Does the king speak to you, asking you to bring them to him? Have the bishops and cardinals demanded that they receive their First Communion at once? What is there in this infernal war that is more precious than my children?”

The second man, who had been praying under his breath, broke off. “You have no power here,” he said.

“I have power everywhere I go,” said Housarde, “and will have more and more each day, until you are dead! Yes, all four of you. It took four bullets to my head to kill me, do you recall? Were you perhaps afraid that one or three of you might miss, and need your mindless friends to help you? But listen, you are fortunate indeed, for had the dead Blues gotten here first they would have killed you before you could draw breath. Myself, I do not like to kill, I am a woman. The countryside is already too hot in this weather without the stench of death and the noise of cannons. Now, you take the little midgets and give them to their mother. I know you are soldiers—you do not like to feed them nor carry them about nor see that they have clothing, you think it is beneath you. And besides, they are too small to march, so they are slowing you down. Get rid of them, and leave this place before the Blues come. I give you my word, we will not tell them where you are. This woman has been moaning and sobbing all month for lack of them—to silence her wails is worth more to me than another battle! But if you do not do this, there will be more phantoms to haunt you than us two!”

The second soldier hesitated a few seconds, then made for the cart, grabbing Georgette, who smelled nearly as foul to him as he did to Housarde. He handed her to Michelle, grunted, and returned for the boys.

“Georgette!” Michelle cried. “My daughter! What have they done to you? Are you well? Ah, thanks be unto heaven for preserving your life!”

“Hold on,” said the first soldier. “How is it that she can hold the brat? She is not much of a ghost, for all that.”

“Do not irritate them, Sabre-tout,” said the other, pacing back with René-Jean in tow. “Forgive my friend’s boldness. He is unused to such...such esteemed company as yours.”

“I shall forgive him all you like, when you bring the other boy,” said Housarde. The soldier wasted no time in doing so.

“And are you going to explain to the Marquis that a ghost ordered you to retreat from this position?” Sabre-tout jeered.

“I am departing whether he sanctions it or not. I do not like this place and I cannot fathom why he does, either. This is a decrepit ruin; if any fortress should harbor ghosts, it is this.”

“Mamma!” cheered Gros-Alain, a cry quickly taken up by his siblings.

Not until they were back under the cover of the woods did Housarde allow herself relief. She had not witnessed Gauvain’s maneuver at Dol, but she had drawn inspiration in such a manner, deceiving the enemy into believing themselves outnumbered.

“Momomme,” Georgette repeated.

“Be kind to her,” said Michelle. “She may be strange, but she is our friend. Yes,” she elaborated, before Housarde could speak, “you were wicked to lie to me, but by some miracle you have brought me to my children, and for that I can never repay you.”

“We need not speak of debts or payment,” said Housarde. “What would I do with francs?”

“How is it that you found them? Or did you know from the start, and not wish to have me wailing?”

“I told the truth. It is not until I saw that man that I recalled his ugly mug. It is true, he shot me. How it is I came to be a ghost I could not say, but when I saw him I apprehended that I may have been granted a chance at vengeance.”

“So you wish to murder him?”

“By no means! When he and his fellow brigands are dead, here with a bullet in their chest or in their beds as old men, then I feel I shall be set free to join the truly departed. But why should I hasten that day? My duty is still to the Bonnet-Rouge, which means to you and your brats.”

“But they are here,” said Michelle. “Thanks to your power, my children are here.”

“You do not suppose you can be rid of me that quickly, can you? I must make sure you find solid food for Georgette. And René-Jean will no doubt find another sweetheart in the next village he passes through. As he has no father now, not even our batallion, I shall have to counsel him on how to treat women.”

“You think me a simpleton.”

“It is not such a bad thing to be a simpleton, is it? You have your task—that is being a mother, and for you all else is chaff. I am not so simple. I have you to look after, but I also have these brigands to taunt and perhaps other ghosts to seek out, if you are tired of me.”

“If I send you away, you will listen? Not cling to me like a splinter?”

“Now that you have your brats you must have more sense than to wander into an army camp; you do not need me to draw you a map. So yes, I will listen.”

“Then I am not _just_ a foolish peasant woman,” Michelle pointed out. “Still, the country is dangerous, and there is not much food. If you wish—I would be most grateful for another spirit looking out for us.”

“Ghost,” repeated Gros-Alain.

“Her name is Housarde,” said Michelle.

“Zard,” Georgette echoed.

Across the plateau, the Vendeans were preparing to march, and the campfires died away.


End file.
